


methods of destruction

by kylieno



Category: Satan and Me (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 01:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylieno/pseuds/kylieno
Summary: she’s gone, and she’s never coming back.





	methods of destruction

**[day one]**

Lucifer's breath comes in sharp and ragged, a knife filling his mouth with the taste of copper.

His throat burns with the weight of the heavy air that doesn’t want to leave his lungs. His eyes are unfamiliar and salt-soaked. He feels like a stranger in this grieving body, a numb observer behind the panic and tears. His unsure hands shift from tugging at his hair to gripping his neck with enough intensity to crack bone. He glances at her, horrified to look but unable to stop.

She doesn’t move from her cocoon of blankets, mouth parted slightly, hair sprawled out on her pillow. She could’ve been sleeping, if not for her half-lidded, glassy stare.

“It was me?” He asks her softly, voice wavering. “You’re fuckin’ joking.”

Natalie doesn’t reply, just keeps looking at him with unseeing eyes.

* * *

**[day three]**

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe his Father, maybe a miracle, maybe for her to rise from the dingy motel bed and smile, saying  _“I knew you cared, you big marshmallow.”_

The room is starting to smell. He imagines watching her swollen flesh melt to bone and her bones turn to dust, and he can't stifle the painful retch that climbs out of his mouth. He had thought there was more time. At least a few more days. A few more hours. He hadn't noticed the sand in the hourglass fall, fall, falling until there was nothing left beneath the surface.

When he finally looked, it was far too late.

Sometime during the day, he finds himself sitting next to her, drawing on some of his limited power to smooth away her blistered skin. There’s no point to it; he’s only delaying the inevitable, but it gives him some peace of mind to know that her body is still there, perfectly preserved. Waiting for her to come back.

He lets himself sleep, if only to forget that her soul is not being so well cared for.

* * *

  **[day seven]**

“Lucifer.”

He doesn’t move from his spot, hands threading through her hair, softly drifting more essence into her still form. He could do this forever, if he needed to.

“Lucifer, she wouldn’t want this,” Michael says gently, a tone so foreign it shocks him out of his reverie.

“Well, she’s not here, is she?” He spits out, refusing to look at his brother. “She’s not here and our contract is fulfilled so I can do whatever the  _fuck_  I want, can’t I?”

Michael doesn’t speak. He takes a tentative step toward the bed, like he’s approaching a feral animal. Lucifer closes his eyes, a wave of exhaustion overcoming him.

“You look bad, Luce. You need to stop trying to heal her.”

“She’s gone,” he says softly.

“I know.”

“She’s  _gone_ ,” he repeats, a feeble attempt to explain the despair that was carving a ragged hole into his chest.

“I know, let me take her. I promise I’ll take good care of her,” Michael says.

Absently, Lucifer thinks that they haven’t had such a civil conversation since before the Fall. He doesn’t have the energy to fight today.

“…Okay,” he mutters, but the venom he tries to inject into the word just doesn’t come.

Michael lifts her into his arms. One of her hands dangle limply by his brother’s waist, head tilted into his chest. Lucifer had closed her eyes a long time ago; if he forgets hard enough, he can pretend that she’s just asleep.

Michael spares him a pitying look, eyes grazing over the violet shock of horns adorning his head.

“I didn’t think you would care this much. I’m really sorry.”

He melts into the air, taking her with him.

* * *

**[day thirty]**

He still hasn’t found a way to bring her back. Death doesn’t want to do him any favors, even now that he wants it so badly he can taste the rot on his tongue. He swallows his self loathing and lets it sit like hemlock in his stomach.

It’s sunset, and he stands on the crest of the ocean, soft waves splashing around his ankles. The sky melts into a polluted orange, and he inhales the cigarette-stained air.

Conquest is here. And tonight, he’ll make her pay.

* * *

  **[day thirty one]**

He wakes up covered in blood.

Maybe a year ago, he would’ve been filled with a vindictive happiness that he managed to destroy one of the most powerful beings in existence, but he looks at the red on his hands and feels revulsion rise in his stomach.

_I didn't want this._

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and wipes the red away on his worn tunic.

* * *

  **[day fifty five]**

In true biblical fashion, he decides to wander. After all, that’s what murderers do.

"You didn’t murder me," she says mournfully, sliding her knees to her chest, holding them in place with thin, decaying arms. 

Lucifer doesn’t reply. It’s not her. She locked herself inside of him and threw away the key, and that warm voice is  _not hers._

He grabs his backpack and starts to walk. He has all the time in the world.

* * *

  **[day four hundred and three]**

He’s in a bar in Rome when she starts talking again.

“They’re looking for you, you know,”Natalie says, twirling a strand of burnt hair around her finger. “You’ve seen the signs; the End is drawing nearer.”

“Good,” he says, taking a swig of whiskey. He can’t get drunk, but the burn of alcohol down his throat is strangely, painfully satisfying.

She frowns. “Don’t say that. I want you to be happy. I want you to care about something.”

“I cared about you, and look where that got me,” Lucifer replies bitterly, voice cracking. “I cared about you, and you  _left_  me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I fucked up, okay?” He says, gulping down the rest of his drink. “I fucked up and you died and it was all my fault.”

“It wasn’t…I loved you,” she says.

“I remember,” he mumbles into his cup. “I know you did. It just makes it worse.”

* * *

**[day two thousand, four hundred and fifty seven]**

He’s contracted again.

The man who summoned him is not a good one. His eyes are cold, fingers trembling and grimy with blood and dirt, lips perpetually lifted upward into an unnerving smile. Lucifer recognizes him instantly.

“What do you want?” He asks icily, glancing at the bloodstained symbol etched on the wall.

The man inhales a rattling breath.

“I want my memories back,” he whispers, scratching at his arm. “I know someone took them. I know they’re gone. I feel them, swimming beneath the surface.”

“You’re going to hell for this, you know,” Lucifer says bluntly. “You can’t renege on the contract once the deed is done. No way out.”

Jericho barks out a sharp, shuddering laugh. “I’m going to hell anyways; why not get something out of it while I’m here?”

He looks at Satan imploringly, his pale eyes searching hungrily for approval. For guidance.

Lucifer remembers the way he had looked at her. The way he took joy in her suffering. The way he carved into her skin without any sign of remorse.

The bastard deserved to remember it, too.

His hand shot out and clenched around Jericho’s skull, fingers pressing harshly into his sandy hair. He pulls them out, kicking and screaming, from his subconscious, his head filled with visions of bright green eyes and a warm smile and the overwhelming feeling of wanting to see it break, shatter, _burn_ —

“Done,” he says hoarsely, feeling the contract release.

Jericho enjoys one half-second of his returned memories before he stiffens, eyes widening. “You—”

Lucifer decks him with all the force he has, cartilage and bone splitting under his knuckles. Jericho crumples with a groan.

“When you get to hell,” Lucifer breathes, drawing back his hand, “tell her that I haven’t forgotten about her.”

* * *

**[day four thousand, one hundred and thirteen]**

“Stan?”

It’s not the name, but the familiarity of the voice that makes him freeze. He’s in a bar in Oregon, of all the fucking places to be. He really shouldn’t have come back to the west.

_“Stanley.”_

He swivels in place to see Maximilian McAllister, over thirty years old and asthmatic and still half a foot shorter than him, stomping towards him with a fury that makes him recoil.

“What the  _fuck_  did you do to my sister?” He snarls, rising up on the balls of his feet to look him in the eye.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucifer lies, forcing himself to meet Max’s gaze.

“Don’t lie, you pathetic piece of shit,” Max spits, venom on his tongue. “Dad said that Natalie was acting strange the week before she disappeared, and guess who else vanished with her?”

Lucifer swallows down the guilt. “We moved. Bad timing,” he replies curtly.

“We checked the school records, Stan, and you were never a student there,” he says harshly. “You had her lying to us from the get-go. I knew there was something fishy about you from the first time I saw your creepy little face.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Lucifer says, bitter lies forcing it’s way through his teeth. “I was fourteen, Natalie was my tutor, I hung out with her for a few months, and I left. I barely think about her nowadays—”

Max isn’t strong by any means, but the fist that flies into Lucifer’s jaw catches him off guard. He stumbles, thrown off balance for just enough time for Max to tackle him to the ground.

“You—ruined—my—life,” He hisses between punches. “Natalie’s gone—Dad’s trying to claw his way back out of the bottle— and it’s  _all—your—fault_.”

Lucifer doesn’t move. He feels his nose break, blood streaming down his face. He feels Max, yelling and struggling, being pulled off of him by the authorities. He feels someone, the bartender, maybe, touch his shoulder, asking him if he’s alright. He feels Natalie sitting in the corner, watching it all with those glassy eyes.

He keeps looking at the dark-stained ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to die. It’s about time to call Michael.

* * *

**[day four thousand, two hundred and nine]**

It begins and ends in a garden.

It’s a beautiful place, the leaves melting into orange and brown, hydrangeas and roses withering in the October chill. The plant life gives way to a mile of flatland, tall grass fluttering in the wind. Completely deserted. Perfect for a biblical showdown, he thinks.

“Fitting,” Michael says wryly, his free hand grazing a rose petal. The other holds his  heavenly weapon, a torch crackling with blue fire. “You always had a flair for the dramatic, Luce.”

Lucifer snorts, walking closer to the field. “And the pot calls the kettle black.”

Michael follows, gazing at the empty meadow. “When I was told there was going to be a final battle between heaven and hell, I wasn’t exactly picturing this,” he says. “I imagined more death and destruction, especially on your end.”

Lucifer hesitates. “…I just want to get this over with,” He replies. “Just you and me, nobody else in the way.”

Michael stops walking. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Making me not want to fight you. It’s really annoying.”

“You’re going to have to,” he says, turning around to face his brother. Michael’s brows are furrowed, lower lip jutted out, but the expression on his face isn’t of petulance. For the first time in his life, Michael looks defiant. Lucifer wants to laugh at the irony, but it turns sour on his throat.

“You have that look in your eyes,” Michael says, “Like you’re just waiting to die. It’s not going to be a fair fight.”

Lucifer remembers when he said the same thing to Natalie when he fought Titus.

_That guy’s at the end of his rope. Not much fight left in him. If anything, his eyes look like an animal that just wants to be put down._

He swallows. “Good for you, then. You’ll be the mighty hero who killed the big bad devil.” He starts walking before Michael can respond. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Michael to corner him.

Lucifer is on the ground, straws of old wheat poking at his sides. The heat of the torch Michael holds to his throat is singeing his hair, the blue fire threatening to blister his skin.

“This is because of Gingersnap, isn’t it?” Michael asks softly.

He doesn’t have the words. He just nods.

Michael sighs, closing his eyes, tension leaving his body. Completely unguarded. Lucifer doesn't move.

“You’ve done a really good job of destroying yourself over the past decade, Luce.” He opens his eyes. “I’m really sorry about this.” 

He brings down his weapon.

Lucifer smiles.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> finally getting around to uploading all of my sam fics ;; come talk about it with me on tumblr @cuteizuku or on discord @kylieno#1719!


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